


Entangled Hands Are Bound

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Justice League (2017)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-11 04:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: A collection of Superbat ficlets, written for specific prompts. Most are DCEU, but a couple are comics-based. Tags will be updated as necessary.For ease of navigation, chapter titles will be in the format of [Universe - Prompt/Kink - Rating].Chapter notes will contain warnings and any other relevant information.





	1. DC Comics - Nostalgia - G

**Author's Note:**

> I had a backlog of prompt fills that I never got around to posting, and rather than face the prospect of thinking of titles and summaries for all of them, I figured this would be easier. ;) 
> 
> The title is a rephrasing of this stanza from _Ode To Hands_, by Halina Poswiatowska:
> 
> _I wanted to tear this love to pieces_  
_but it was supple it entangled my hands_  
_and my hands are bound with love_  
_people ask whose prisoner I am_
> 
> (Apologies to anyone who got multiple notifications; I didn't realise that the chapters hadn't all posted at the same time!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this AU panel from the Superman/Batman comic book:  
http://why-i-love-comics.tumblr.com/post/117128984753/batmansuperman-3-split-screen-2013written

“Hey,” Clark says, landing on the rooftop just behind where Bruce is crouching, as still and silent and wrapped in shadows as any of the stone gargoyles that glower across the Gotham City skyline.

“I’m working, Clark.”

Bruce isn’t startled in the least, despite the fact that he hadn’t even heard Clark approaching. By now he’s had decades to get used to Clark’s sudden comings and goings; hearing Clark’s voice come out of nowhere is as natural as hearing his own thoughts inside his head.

“Are you busy?”

Bruce sighs. “Not really,” he admits. “It’s unusually quiet tonight.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clark grins. “I might have taken a quick look around before I came up here.” 

“Boy scout,” Bruce mutters, shaking his head. “Just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Nope,” Clark replies, unrepentant. “If I can help, I will. Even if it’s not my territory.” 

He settles down next Bruce, legs dangling off the side of the building as he looks out at the city below them. Bruce knows that Gotham isn’t pretty — not like the glittering skyscrapers and sun-dappled parks of Metropolis, anyway — but it's still beautiful in its own way, with its strange mishmash of the Gothic and the modern, the filth and the frippery. Still, he knows Clark hadn’t come out here just to admire the view. 

“Clark?”

“I was just thinking,” he says. “Of when we first met. You remember?”

“Of course.” Bruce glances over. “I knocked you down and then used your face to break a stick.” 

Clark laughs a little.

“I tried to teach you to play baseball,” he corrects, “and then we went stargazing. And you knew…” Clark trails off. “You knew I was different. Almost right away, you knew.”

“You were just a kid,” Bruce says, and wonders where this is going. “You weren’t very good at hiding it yet.”

But Clark shakes his head. 

“It wasn’t that I couldn’t hide it, Bruce.” He turns and looks at Bruce properly, catching and holding his gaze. “It was that I couldn’t hide it from you. You saw everything. You always do.”

“No,” Bruce says. He thinks of the long years of friendship between them, of the closeness and the trust, and of how they’ve been edging, maybe, towards something even more. “Not always.” 

“Okay,” Clark concedes, “maybe not _right_ away.” His voice is half-teasing, half-gentle. “But you do always get there in the end.” He looks back out over the city again, all twinkling gold lights and rain-damp streets gleaming in the moonlight. Nighttime suited Gotham. It suited Bruce, too. “And lucky for you,” Clark adds, “I can be a pretty patient guy when I want to be.”

Bruce looks down when he feels Clark’s hand settle on top of his own. It’s warm, undemanding, and reassuring in a way that’s so very _Clark Kent_ that for a moment, Bruce loses his voice completely.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, when he can speak again. Bruce turns his hand over. He curls his fingers and squeezes, just a little. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clark smile. “That _is _lucky for me.”


	2. DCEU - Bets and wagers - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also features Barry and Arthur.

“I’m serious,” Barry says.

“Oh, yeah, I know you are,” Arthur replies. “Guy’s a billionaire and built like a tank; of course people would be falling all over themselves to get a piece of that.” 

“So why won’t you take the bet?”

Arthur laughs. “I may not be a genius, but even I know not to make a bet with someone who _is_.”

Barry flushes a little. “It doesn’t require genius to bet on this, though.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “I mean, I’m not exactly great at understanding the nuances of human emotion, am I? If anything, I’m the one at a disadvantage here.”

Arthur tilts his head, considering. 

“All right,” he says slowly, and nods. “Okay, I accept.”

Barry all but bounces on his toes. “Really? Fifty bucks?”

Arthur nods. 

“Fifty bucks.”

“Awesome!” Barry holds out a fist and gives Arthur an expectant look. It takes a little while, but eventually Arthur rolls his eyes and gives it a quick bump. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Honestly?” Arthur shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if something happened _today_—”

That’s when the door swings open and Clark and Bruce walk in. The two of them barely even glance over, too absorbed in their own conversation, which actually sounds more like an argument.

“You’re ridiculous, Clark,” Bruce is saying. “You realise that, right?”

“Says the man who dresses up like a giant bat every night,” Clark retorts. 

“Says the man who thinks a pair of glasses is enough to keep his identity a secret,” Bruce shoots back.

Clark smiles suddenly and Bruce stops short. Something flickers over Bruce’s face, something that Clark clearly sees but struggles not to react to. 

“Says the man the glasses worked on when we first met,” Clark replies. 

Barry gets the feeling that Clark had been aiming for smug but he ends up missing by a pretty wide margin. Clark’s voice has gone soft and sort of breathy, and there’s a faint hint of pink at the tops of his ears and spreading across his cheeks, a pink that gets more intense the longer he and Bruce maintain eye contact.

“Maybe I was just distracted,” Bruce says. His voice is softer now too, but not the same way as Clark’s. It’s the opposite, actually—kind of rough and low, like his throat’s gone dry. 

Barry frowns. 

“Oh?” Clark asks. He shifts a little, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with his body or where to put his hands, but when Bruce grins and reaches up, trailing one finger over the collar of Clark’s shirt and then down over his chest, Clark suddenly goes absolutely still. 

“You wore this tie,” Bruce murmurs. “And it’s as much a travesty today as it was back then.”

Bruce’s hand lingers, smoothing down non-existent wrinkles on Clark’s shirt, fixing the line of his already straightened collar. They stare at each other and the air goes thick with tension, strangely similar looks on both their faces even though Bruce is ostensibly the one who got the last word. And now even Barry can tell that something’s happening that really shouldn’t have an audience, much less one that he and Arthur are a part of.

He glances over to where Arthur is sitting and blinks when he sees the huge grin on his face. Arthur waggles his eyebrows and rubs his fingers together, in the universal sign for _pay up, loser, and give me my money now._

Barry’s about to protest when he remembers what Arthur said, just before Clark and Bruce walked in. He sighs, defeated.

“Hey, Bruce?” Barry calls out. “Can you lend me fifty bucks?”


	3. DCEU - Palm kissing - T

It’s almost dawn when Bruce finally makes it to bed. The patrol that night hadn’t been particularly difficult—god knows he’s gone through worse—but it had been _long_. He’d barely had a chance to stop all night, swinging from building to building and alley to alley and stopping at least a dozen crimes. All fairly minor, but he’s got fresh bruises on his ribs and new scrapes on his knuckles and he’s more tired than he’d care to admit. 

Ordinarily Bruce would just collapse into the mattress and let himself pass out. But tonight’s not an ordinary night, and neither was the night before this one, nor the several weeks’ worth of nights before that. In fact, it’s getting to the point where Bruce is starting to think he might need a new definition for ‘ordinary’ altogether.

“Hey,” Clark greets. He’s wide awake, like he always is, no matter how late Bruce gets back. He pats the bed and Bruce hesitates, like he always does, no matter how often Clark waits up. 

“Hey.”

Bruce climbs in next to him and knows that Clark is taking in how stiffly he’s moving, that he’s looking past the shirt and beyond the skin and checking flesh and bone. Not so long ago it would have seemed like a violation but now… now it feels like something else.

Clark watches him for a moment.

“Sleep?” he suggests, reaching over and brushing his fingertips against a new bruise on Bruce's cheek. 

“For you too,” Bruce replies, catching Clark’s wrist before he can withdraw his hand. “You have to be at the Planet in a few hours.”

“I don’t need as much sleep as you do.” 

“Is that why you waited up?” 

Clark smiles a little and shakes his head.

“If you really think that’s the reason why I’m still awake, then I’ll know for sure that ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ is just media hyperbole.”

“You’re the journalist,” Bruce replies. “You know how it works.” He closes his eyes before he lets himself give a real answer. “And no,” he adds quietly, “I know that’s not the reason you’re still awake.”

He must be even more tired than he’d thought, because Bruce doesn’t even realise he’s still holding Clark’s wrist until Clark slowly pulls out of his grip. And then he can feel Clark’s fingers moving, tracing patterns over the top of his hand before turning it over and doing the same to his palm and the inside of his wrist. 

It takes longer than it should, but eventually Bruce realises the patterns aren’t just random swirls and squiggles.

“What is that?” he asks, and opens his eyes.

“I was going through some of the data from the scout ship earlier,” Clark says. His fingers are still moving, still writing something into Bruce’s skin, over and over again. “I found some interesting information about how Kryptonian society changed over the centuries. Rules for how to behave, how to dress, how to—” He falters for a second. “How to court someone, I guess you could say. Old-fashioned rules for dating—you know, like how kids needed chaperones back in the day.”

Bruce studies Clark’s face. It’s still dark, but Bruce has spent most of his life skulking in the shadows—the blush on Clark’s face is as clear as the fact that Clark is deliberately avoiding his eyes. 

“And?” Bruce prompts.

“This is what Kryptonians would do, apparently.” Clark finally looks up. “When they found someone who...” He trails off and looks away again. Bruce just waits, saying nothing. “They’d write three words into the other person’s skin, in three specific places.”

He hesitates, and Bruce goes very still. 

Clark slowly traces an alien word into the top of Bruce’s hand. “Compassion,” he translates. He writes another word across the inside of Bruce’s wrist. “Life.” Then he writes one more, very carefully, into Bruce’s open palm. “Trust.”

Clark’s body runs warm; it always takes longer than Bruce expects for the heat from his hands to fade away. And tonight, right now, it seems to take longer than ever. 

“I’m not Kryptonian,” Bruce says, after a long, long minute of silence. “But maybe… maybe I can put a human spin on it.” 

He bends his head and brushes his lips over Clark’s knuckles, and the inside of his wrist, feeling Clark’s pulse flutter against his mouth. And then he presses a kiss, gently but firmly, into the palm of his hand.

It’s a while before Clark speaks again.

“No words?” he asks eventually. His voice is a little rough. 

Bruce glances up. “Do you need them?”

Clark responds by pulling him closer and kissing all the breath out of him.

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees, panting, when they finally pull apart. “Me neither.”


	4. DCEU - Stoic one showing affection - T

Clark knows it's a strange thing to acknowledge, but it also feels wrong to ignore the date altogether. It was the day, after all, that changed his life – which seems oddly fitting, really, since it was also the day he died.

He looks out at the city lights reflected on the water, standing almost on the exact spot where it happened. There's no trace of the battle anymore; it's just another working dock, one of many that lined the harbor, dotted with ships that sway a little in the strong, cold breeze. Fall will give way to winter soon, Clark thinks, and when it does, Gotham will be covered in snow.

Thoughts of Gotham inevitably lead to thoughts of Batman, which inevitably lead to thoughts of Bruce. Clark can't really pinpoint the moment when he realized what the weird mix of antagonism and admiration he felt really meant, but he's almost certain that Bruce understood it before he did. There could be no other reason why Bruce's mouth opened so easily under his own that night, why Bruce's hands curled around his hips and tugged him closer.

Clark hadn't given him any warning – it just happened, a sudden, impulsive thing after a job with the League. Bruce was unusually relaxed, in the way he only ever seemed to get after a successful mission or a productive night on patrol. He was talking about the rest of the team, how it felt like they were finally becoming the cohesive unit that he'd always hoped they'd be. And then he'd turned to Clark and smiled, pleased and a little proud and Clark just moved on instinct, leaning over and brushing his lips against the curve of Bruce's mouth.

He still remembers the feeling of Bruce's hair sliding through his fingers, still remembers the taste of coffee on Bruce's tongue. But most of all, Clark remembers how Bruce had kissed him back: carefully, softly, and after only the slightest hesitation – the pause of a single heartbeat, and nothing more.

"And people expect me to be the morbid one,” Bruce says behind him, pulling him back to the present. 

Clark smiles but doesn't turn around. He's not surprised that Bruce found him. 

"Well,” he says, “if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…"

"Are you saying I'm predictable?"

This thing between them has been going on long enough that Clark isn't startled when Bruce's hands land on his waist. He's totally unprepared, however, when Bruce's arms wrap right around him and pull him close, lips grazing the shell of his ear. Bruce is warm against his back, warm and solid and strong. There's a moment of uncertainty before Clark leans back, and then he's surprised again when Bruce rests his chin on his shoulder, as easily as if he'd done it a hundred times before. 

"Anyone could see us out here," Clark points out.

He feels Bruce shrug behind him. "Let them."

There's a slight hint of tension in Bruce's body but his heartbeat is steady and calm. Clark turns his head a little, just enough to see Bruce's face.

"You knew I'd be here."

Bruce stares out over the harbor, at the twinkling lights of Gotham in the distance.

"It's where I'd be," he says eventually. "If –"

"If you were the one who died?"

"No." Bruce glances at him before stepping around until they're face to face. His arms are still secure around Clark's waist, and now Clark can see how serious Bruce's eyes are, how the steadiness of his heartbeat is more about his training and less about what he actually felt. "It's where I'd be," Bruce corrects, "if you weren't here with me."

Clark thinks about the lakehouse, how Bruce has to drive past the ruins of his childhood home to get there. He thinks about the cave, where Robin's uniform is still on display. And he thinks about the scar on his own chest, the scar he got exactly two years ago on this very dock, the scar that Bruce still has trouble looking at but forces himself to touch. Bruce doesn't think Clark notices, but he does. He notices all of it. 

"I _am_ here, though," Clark says, and hopes Bruce understands. 

Bruce smiles a little. He lifts one hand and touches Clark's face, and the first-hand knowledge of what Bruce's hands were capable of – the strength, as well as the brutality – makes his gentleness now almost shocking in comparison. There's something else in Bruce's eyes now and it takes a while for Clark to accept it for what it is, because 'affectionate' and 'Bruce' weren't words he was used to thinking of in close proximity to each other. And yet, it's not as surprising as it could have been. Not anymore. He's seen Bruce on all kinds of missions; he knows that even the Bat can be soft when he wanted to be. 

"I know," Bruce replies. "And so am I."

It's as much a declaration as Bruce has ever given him. That he should give it today, of all days, and here, of all places –

Clark shakes his head and laughs a little. 

“You really are predictable,” he says. “In the weirdest, most unpredictable way.”

The corner of Bruce's mouth lifts and Clark can't resist; he leans over and kisses him, just to feel Bruce's smile against his lips. 

“That makes no sense, you know,” Bruce says, when Clark pulls back. 

“Well, neither do you.” Clark looks over Bruce's face, at the grey that streaks his temples and lightly peppers his jaw, at the blue of his warm and watchful eyes. Giving so little away on the surface and yet, here he is, Clark thinks. Here they both are. “But this does,” Clark adds, and the smile Bruce gives him lets him know that yes, Bruce understands _exactly_ what he means.


	5. DCEU - Oral sex through fabric - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild D/s undertones, mild praise kink.

It tastes, fittingly, like steel. 

The fabric is smooth beneath his tongue, its clean metallic tang a fascinating contrast to the heat and salt and musk beneath it. Bruce knows what that tastes like too, the bare skin and thick, sweet come; knows how it feels sliding past his lips and thrusting hard into his throat. 

“Oh, god,” Clark gasps from somewhere above him, as Bruce starts mouthing along the length of him, kissing and licking and sucking until he’s hard, harder, _hardest_. “Fuck,” Clark whispers, one shaking hand descending on Bruce’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. 

Bruce had pulled the cowl off before he was even on his knees, partly because it was more comfortable this way but mostly because he knows it drives Clark mad -- the contrast of his unmasked face when the rest of him is still entirely Batman.

He reaches up and presses Clark’s hips against the rough wall of the cave. Despite its strength the Superman suit is incredibly thin, so thin that when it’s pulled taut -- like when stretched over a sizeable erection, say -- it’s almost see-through. Bruce can just make out the shape of Clark’s cock underneath it and he slowly traces the outline with his tongue. Clark’s hips jerk forward and he makes a desperate noise. 

“Bruce, _please_ \--”

“Hold still, Clark.” He glances up, looking through his eyelashes, his smile more like a smirk. This, Bruce knows, drives Clark mad too. “That was the deal, remember?” 

He leans forward and licks a long, slow stripe over him, from tip to root and back again, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Clark manages not to move but his chest is heaving with the effort and his hand tightens painfully in Bruce’s hair. 

“Good,” Bruce says softly, approvingly, and watches the flush darken on Clark’s cheeks. A god, Bruce thinks, or near enough, blushing from a single word of praise. It’s a reminder of the fact that now, after all the arguments and misunderstandings, after finally getting out of their own way and letting whatever was between them unfold -- Bruce doesn’t need kryptonite to bring Clark to his knees anymore, their current positions notwithstanding. All he needs is his mouth.

He starts sucking on the tip of Clark’s cock again, sucking and licking until the fabric is dark and completely soaked through. True to his word Clark stays still, but his head is thrown back and his other hand is clawing at the wall behind him, heedless of the rocks that crack and fall from his fingertips.

Bruce trails one hand up along Clark’s thigh, following the perfect curve of that perfect ass, until his fingers find the hidden edge of a waistband.

He still has no idea how the alien fastening works but he does know how to undo it. And then Bruce makes contact, one leather-gloved finger sliding over bare, smooth skin, and before Clark can do much more than gasp in surprise Bruce slides that finger down and sucks harder than he has all night. 

“_Fuck_, Bruce --”

Clark’s hips thrust hard and Bruce immediately pulls back again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Clark pants, blushing harder than ever. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re still doing well, so well.”

His finger is still in the cleft of Clark’s ass and he starts rubbing at Clark’s entrance, not pushing in, just stroking over and over in a slow, rhythmic tease. Clark shuts his eyes and bites his lip and in full Superman regalia, face flushed and cock straining his suit, he looks so fucking edible that Bruce almost loses control himself. 

The temptation is just too great. Bruce allows himself another quick taste, wrapping his lips around Clark’s cock again and taking him in. Clark makes a strained noise but Bruce pulls back before it becomes too much for either of them. The taste of the suit is addictive, but then, everything about Clark is addictive. Bruce is spoilt for choice.

“Decision time, Clark,” he says. 

With difficulty, Clark opens his eyes. “But you said --”

“Yes?”

Clark swallows. “You said I didn’t get any decisions tonight. That you’d --”

“What? That I'd what?”

Clark hesitates and Bruce bites back a grin. Still so reluctant to say certain things out loud, even though Bruce has seen him writhing on silk sheets, heard him begging to be fucked, tasted his tears when he was brought to the edge over and over again but never allowed to fall. Even though Bruce has watched him riding his cock like the cowboy he actually sort of is.

“I will,” Bruce says, relenting for once. If it sounds like a promise, he can’t bring himself to care. “But I changed my mind about one thing. You do get one decision.” He licks over Clark’s cock again and slowly presses his finger in at the same time -- just barely moving really, but Clark still moans suddenly, pushing back against his hand. 

“_Bruce_ \--”

“That’s your choice,” Bruce says, lips still brushing the fabric pulled tight over Clark’s erection. “That’s the decision you need to make.” He looks up and smiles. “Come in my mouth, Clark, or come on my cock.” 


	6. DCEU - Buff men being helpless - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also features the rest of the Justice League.

“I’ve gotta say,” Barry muses, “compared to the aftermath of most of our other missions, this one is actually a refreshing change.”

“Absolutely,” Vic agrees, watching as Diana easily gets past the last of the bad guys before going to rescue Arthur in an adjacent room. “I mean, it’s worth it for this alone,” he adds, nodding to the scene in front of them. "I’ll be making note of this one for posterity, that’s for sure." He flashes the sort of grin that makes it clear he isn’t talking about padding out an official League mission report. 

“It’s nice though, don’t you think?” Barry tilts his head to the side and gestures at Clark and Bruce tied up on the floor. “Getting to see all this oiled, rippling muscle. It’s _much_ nicer than wading through dead parademons or something.” 

Vic shakes his head. “‘Rippling muscle’? You really need to stop reading all those romance novels, man.”

“And you need to stop being such a snob,” Barry scoffs. “Romance is a perfectly valid literary genre.” 

“As fascinating as this conversation is,” Bruce cuts in, “we’d appreciate it if you could, perhaps, untie us and give us some clothes, maybe? If you have the time.” 

He gives them both the kind of glare that’s scared countless Gotham criminals straight, but despite the cowl still covering his face it just isn’t as effective when he’s wearing nothing else but tiny boxer briefs and liberal amounts of body oil. 

“It would also be nice if someone could get rid of the kryptonite they’ve hidden somewhere,” Clark pipes up. “Then I could untie myself and get my _own_ clothes.” 

Clark had been allowed to keep his cape on, but he’s otherwise just as naked as Bruce -- and Arthur, which they discover when he and Diana join them a minute later.

Barry frowns at him. “Why’d they let you keep your pants on?” he asks.

“They didn’t,” Arthur replies, tugging the waistband up over his hips. “Diana found them for me. Top got shredded, though.”

“I’ll say,” Barry mutters, blinking at Arthur’s bare chest. 

“Some of us are still tied up,” Bruce points out. “And still without pants of our own.” 

“Apologies,” Diana says, amused and not bothering to hide it. “But Arthur told me the oil they used on you was different to the one they used on him.”

“Yeah,” Arthur confirms. “It looked weird, like it was glowing or something.”

Diana turns to Victor. “Can you detect any dangerous compounds?” 

“Seems fine to me,” Vic replies after a pause, scanning Bruce’s skin with his cybernetic eye. “Mineral oil, aloe vera, some kind of preservative… oh, wait a second --” He frowns, sifting through masses of external data to try and find a match. “There’s something else there, too. Traces of it on your mouth… and your jaw and chest.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Bruce interjects, a faint note of urgency in his voice.

“Yeah,” Clark agrees quickly. “You don’t have to keep scanning --”

“Biological matter,” Vic continues. “Non-human... Some kind of fluid -- oh.” Vic stops abruptly. He glances at Clark and blinks. “_Oh_.”

“What?” Diana asks, concerned. “Are they in danger?”

“Yeah,” Barry says, looking like he’s getting ready to speed them back to the batplane at a moment’s notice. “Are they dying, or what?”

“From embarrassment, maybe,” Vic replies with a smirk. 

Diana frowns. “What do you mea-- _oh_.” She presses a hand to her mouth, trying to conceal her laughter. “Non-human biological fluid. On Bruce’s face.” She clears her throat. “I see.”

“Wait a second,” Arthur says. He looks at Bruce, who stares at a spot somewhere over his shoulder, flat-out refusing to even acknowledge the conversation that’s taking place. Then he turns to Clark, who slowly starts going as red as his cape.

“This isn’t exactly how we wanted to tell you,” Clark says. Arthur just keeps on staring.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demands. “Was I seriously the only one that was actually working here?” 

“I was working,” Bruce snaps.

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters. “Working Clark’s di--”

“I was working out where the kryptonite was,” Bruce interrupts, fixing Arthur with a look he usually saves for the worst of his rogues gallery. “And whether or not I had time to get to it before any of them came back.” 

“You were --” Clark gapes at him. “While we were -- ?”

Bruce has the grace to look just a little bit ashamed. 

“Wow,” Barry murmurs. “Batman really _can_ do anything.”

“And I think that’s our cue to leave,” Diana says. “Before this conversation gets even more out of hand.”

Bruce looks like he’s about to thank her before she suddenly steps closer, picking him up off the ground and unceremoniously hefting him onto her shoulders in a perfectly-executed fireman’s carry.

“Is this really necessary?” he asks. 

“Not at all,” she replies, and grins. “Which is precisely why I’m doing it.”

“Think of it as a punishment,” Arthur says darkly. “For leaving me to do all the work.”

“It does show a surprising lack of professionalism,” Vic agrees.

“What makes you all think it’s my fault?” There's more than a trace of annoyance in Bruce's voice. “Maybe Clark started it.”

Diana turns a little, gaze running over the curve of Bruce’s ass where it’s conveniently right beside her head.

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “I can’t say I’d blame him if he did.” 

“Diana!” Clark exclaims. 

“Can we _please_ go back to the plane now,” Bruce grits out. “Please. I will literally give you a million dollars if you just get us all back on the plane right now.” 

“Your money has no value to me, Bruce,” Diana says, grinning, but starts heading out of the warehouse anyway. “You being caught _in flagrante,_ however…”

“That’s not what_ in flagrante _means.” 

“Close enough,” Victor calls after them. “The fluid was pretty fresh --”

“Two million,” Bruce interrupts loudly. “Three million. Just get us out of here and away from this goddamn conversation.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Barry says. He swiftly unties Clark and speeds him out, promising to come straight back and do a sweep for the hidden kryptonite once Clark is safely on the plane.

“You were recording that, right?” Arthur asks Vic, when Bruce and Diana are out of earshot. “The whole thing?”

Vic gives him an incredulous look. 

“You think I’d risk recording that? An almost naked Batman, pretending not to be embarrassed about getting caught blowing his superpowered boyfriend during a mission?” Vic shakes his head. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean--”

“Of course I did.”

“My man,” Arthur says with a grin, and the two of them start heading out too, quietly plotting the best way they could use the footage to their advantage.


	7. DC Comics - Taking things slowly - G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References this comics panel:  
http://1.media.dorkly.cvcdn.com/82/92/2fa9fd22733489247e1223847fcb9eac.jpg

Bruce raises his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise.

“Not bad,” he says, eyeing the label. “Not bad at all.”

“One of the less obvious benefits of being friends with you,” Clark says drily, “is learning what constitutes a decent bottle of wine.” 

“What’s the occasion, though?” Bruce asks, fetching a corkscrew. 

Clark looks amused as he watches Bruce pour them both a glass — not much, just enough to sample it.

“Are you calculating how many weeks you should wait before you get me something in return, to make it seem as random an act as possible?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bruce says. He’d calculated it as soon as he saw Clark walk in with the bottle in his hands — three weeks minimum, five max. “Now answer the question. What’s the occasion?”

Clark swirls the wine around his glass. 

“You don’t know what today is?”

Bruce frowns. Had something happened that warranted a celebration? Was there a birthday he’d forgotten? That was impossible; he’d have had reminders in all his calendars going off weeks ago. 

“Nothing rings a bell,” he says cautiously.

Clark dramatically presses a hand against his chest. “Bruce, you wound me. How can you not remember?” He grins. “A cruise ship, a booking mix-up, one empty cabin with only one available bed…” 

“Oh, god,” Bruce says, but he can’t help laughing a little as he says it. “Today’s the —” he pauses, not quite sure what word to use. “The anniversary, of that?”

Clark nods. “Yep.” He’s still smiling, but there’s something almost wistful in his eyes now too. “Ten years ago to the day.” 

“A decade,” Bruce murmurs, shaking his head a little. It was strange to think about, somehow seeming both too long and not nearly long enough; hard to believe it had been so many years ago, and equally hard to remember a time when Clark hadn’t been a part of his life. “Well,” he adds, after a pause, “I’d say that deserves a toast, don’t you?” 

He raises his glass and Clark does the same, but when their eyes meet the atmosphere in the room seems to change — still lighthearted, but with something more serious just below the surface, quietly bubbling away. Clark’s eyes seem very blue over the rim of his glass as he waits for Bruce to speak.

“To old friendships,” Bruce says. His voice is unexpectedly quiet.

“And new beginnings,” Clark replies, just as soft.

They tap their glasses together. The faint _clink_ only serves to emphasize the shift in the air between them but Clark doesn’t seem to mind, silently watching Bruce with a small smile on his face as he takes a sip of his wine. 

“I can’t believe you remembered the date,” Bruce says, after tasting the wine himself. Malbec, Cuvée Marguerite. Excellent, really. He licks his lips and tastes spice and blackberries, blood plums ripe and red. He finishes off what’s left in his glass, tipping his head back as he drains it. 

Clark’s gaze sharpens, just a little.

“It’s important,” he replies. “It’s worth remembering.”

Bruce stares at him for a moment. Clark is still smiling, the expression as clear in his eyes as it is on his lips. He seems — happy, for lack of a better word. Content. 

“You know,” Bruce says slowly, “if we told anyone else the story of how we met, it would sound like the start of some kind of romantic comedy.” 

Clark’s smile widens. 

“Yeah,” he says, and meets Bruce’s eyes over the rim of his glass again. “Funny, that.” 


	8. DC Comics - Happiness - G

The sun is shining and the sky is blue and the sand is warm beneath his legs. It's quiet out here, nothing but the gentle splash of the ocean as small waves break against the nearby shore. Late afternoon sunlight filters down through the brilliantly green fronds of palm trees high overhead, dappling the wide expanse of Clark's bare back with vivid splashes of gold. 

It's peaceful. Calm. Relaxing. 

It's setting Bruce's teeth on edge. 

He looks over at Clark, lying face-down on a beach towel, eyes closed. Bruce is pretty sure he isn't asleep but decides to risk it anyway, surreptitiously reaching into the folds of the spare towel he'd brought and feeling around until his fingers make contact with the smooth, cool metal of his phone. 

“Bruce,” Clark says, without opening his eyes. 

He freezes. 

“Yes?”

“You wouldn't be trying to check your email while we're on vacation, would you?” 

Bruce slowly pulls his hand out from under the towel. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, “sometimes your superhearing is really, really annoying.”

Clark cracks one eye open. 

“Better that than the Gotham Bat reneging on a promise, right?” 

Bruce sighs. He shoves the towel and phone aside and lays down instead, resigned to his fate. He recognises a winning a strike when he sees one. 

Clark closes his eyes again and smiles. 

“You're not very good at this, are you?” he asks.

Bruce glances over at him, taking in that sleepy, fond smile, the relaxed stretch of his limbs, the way the sun catches the dark curls at the nape of his neck. 

“No,” Bruce admits. “I'm not.” He rolls onto his stomach and reaches over, briefly running his fingers through Clark's hair before trailing his hand down until it rests against the small of Clark's back. “But I think I can learn.”


	9. DCEU - Your fave being wrecked - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains rimming.

The last time Clark felt this undone, he'd been poisoned with enough kryptonite that his skin had split and blood dripped down his face, hot and red and wholly unfamiliar.

There's no blood now and no kryptonite, either, but Clark is still incoherent with sensations he doesn't quite understand; his body reacting in ways he can't quite process. Fingers tighten around his hips as he helplessly ruts against the bed, the scratch of stubble against the soft skin of his inner thighs making him shudder. And then a mouth is at the small of his back, a mouth that moves lower and lower, tasting, exploring, teasing, and Clark starts to shake in anticipation of what he knows is coming next.

When a tongue pushes in Clark has to shut his eyes, his guttural moan muffled by the pillow his face is pressed against – muffled but not silenced, because when it escapes his throat that tongue pushes in even deeper in response. And then Clark thinks about how no one – _no one_ – has ever touched him like this before, how this is a first that no one else will be able to claim, and he can't stop himself from moaning again, from crying out as he starts spiralling out of control.

Because as much as kryptonite strips him of his strength, as much as it leaves him defenceless, it was nothing compared to this.

There's kryptonite, and then there's Bruce.


	10. DCEU - Going grey - T

Clark doesn't even notice until Barry mentions it at a League meeting one day.

"I hope I go grey like that," he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. No one but Clark hears him, Bruce continuing to chair the meeting from the front of the room and the rest of the League listening attentively. "I mean, I doubt I'd make it look like he does, since he's got that whole –" he makes a vague gesture with his hands – "distinguished gentleman vibe going on, but I'd rather go grey than bald." He pauses and looks thoughtful. "Not that there's anything wrong with being bald, of course. I just don't think I have the cranial structure to pull it off."

Clark waits until Bruce is facing away from them before he shows any reaction.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, just as quietly.

"Bruce's hair," Barry replies. "It's –"

Bruce suddenly turns and looks right at them. Barry cuts himself off just in time. 

"Do you have something to contribute, Barry?" Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no, nothing at all." Barry shakes his head, too hard and too fast to be entirely innocent.

Bruce shifts his gaze to Clark.

"Don't look at me," Clark protests. He suppresses the urge to sit up straighter. "I didn't say anything, either."

"Mmm," Bruce says, clearly sceptical, but he turns away and resumes the presentation without further comment.

Barry doesn't say anything else for the rest of the meeting, but then, he doesn't have to. The seed has been planted, and Clark spends the next hour staring at the grey in Bruce's hair and wondering why he'd never noticed it taking over the black.

**

"Do you need anything? Tea? Water?" Clark hovers behind Bruce at the workstation, peering into the almost empty mug at his elbow.

"I could use some more coffee," Bruce says, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

"Coffee?" Clark repeats, stepping around the side of the desk. "Are sure you don't want something else?" 

Bruce glances over but doesn't turn his head. He stares for a moment, the look in his eyes sharp enough that he doesn't even have to say anything out loud – Clark can already tell what he's thinking.

"You drink a lot of coffee," Clark mutters, looking away. "It can't be good for you."

And really, Clark should have known that _he_ wouldn't need to say anything out loud, either. 

"Any number of things could happen to me when I'm on patrol," Bruce says. "Or when we're on a mission." He turns, finally, to look at Clark properly – turns his whole body in the chair until they're facing each other, until there's nothing between them to hide behind or obscure what they're actually trying to say. "Old age should be the least of your worries."

Clark reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off Bruce's forehead. _Grey streaked with black now_, he thinks, hand lingering against Bruce's face, _instead of the other way around_. The way it used to be. 

"True enough," he concedes. "But it's also the only thing I can't fight off for you."

Bruce looks amused. "You say that like I'd let you fight anything for me."

"You say that like you could stop me," Clark shoots back.

He watches Bruce's smile widen, sees the way his eyes crinkle at the corners more than they did a year ago, and wonders how much more they'll crinkle next year, and the year after that. It's not a bad thing, aesthetically speaking, but it still makes certain truths hit home in a way that Clark doesn't really want to think about. Not yet.

He traces the curve of Bruce's mouth with a thumb before he sighs and lets his hand drop. "Bruce—"

But his wrist is caught before he can pull away completely, a firm, warm grip that's as familiar as it is reassuring. Clark stares at Bruce's fingers – a little more gnarled than they once were, maybe, but still every bit as strong.

"On second thought," Bruce says, "I think I'll have tea instead."

Clark looks up. There's still a faint smile on Bruce's face, although there's a trace of something more serious in his eyes now too.

"Herbal tea?" Clark suggests, and knows he's pushing his luck. A muscle in Bruce's jaw twitches and Clark struggles to keep a straight face.

"Sure," is the too-calm reply. "That… sounds great."

Clark stops fighting it. He shakes his head and lets the grin escape, a grin that turns into a laugh when Bruce suddenly tugs hard on his arm. He stumbles and loses his balance, but it's okay – Bruce is there to catch him. 

"You know what else is good for maintaining one's health?" Bruce asks, as Clark settles himself more comfortably in his lap. 

"No," Clark lies, even though he's already bending his head, already flushing with warmth – warmth that's partly from want and mostly from something much, much deeper. "What?" 

"Physical activity," Bruce replies, whispering the answer right into his ear. Lips brush Clark's cheek, his jaw, his mouth. "Lots and _lots_ of physical activity."


	11. DCEU - Losing control of powers during sex - E

Clark doesn’t notice until Bruce swallows him down, until the resistance gives way and his cock slides deep into Bruce’s tight, hot throat.

“Fuck, _Bruce_,” he gasps, shaking hands cupping Bruce's jaw as he throws his head back. But instead of a pillow his head finds only empty air, and the sudden lack of support is pretty much the only reason he's aware of anything beyond the feeling of Bruce starting to move – of Bruce fucking his own throat on Clark's painfully hard cock.

Clark snaps his head up, heat flooding his face – he hasn't done this since he was a teenager. But when he sees that Bruce is up on his knees, watching him with dark eyes and head still bobbing up and down, Clark’s skin flushes for a different reason altogether. That Bruce hadn't stopped, didn't even pause when he started to lift off the bed –

"You like it," Clark whispers, the realisation somehow making him even harder.

Bruce doesn't reply – not that he can, what with Clark filling his mouth so completely – but he does make a noise, a pornographic moan from deep in his throat that Clark feels in every single nerve he has. The burst of intense pleasure makes it impossible not to buck his hips, to drive even deeper into Bruce's willing mouth, and it's almost too much, almost more than he can take – too good, too intimate, too everything.

He fists one hand in Bruce's hair, not knowing whether he’s trying to tell Bruce to pull back or never, ever stop. He knows his grip is too tight, that it must be causing pain, but Bruce's eyes just go even darker, fingers on Clark's hips digging in harder, and he moans around Clark again, even louder than he did before. Clark cries out, eyes shut tight, and is only dimly aware of a change in Bruce's grip, in the angle of his mouth and throat.

Clark forces his eyes open. He's levitated even higher now and it's only Bruce's hold on him that's stopped him from flying all the way up to the ceiling. But he's almost vertical now instead of horizontal, and Bruce is looking up at him with something calculating in his eyes. It's a look Clark recognises – the one Bruce gets when his mind is on full throttle, combing through data and forming theories and spinning them all into perfect, detailed plans of action. 

Bruce slowly pulls his head back. He presses his tongue hard against the underside of Clark's cock as he moves, so slowly that Clark shudders at the long, steady slide. His hands tighten in Bruce's hair again and he sees Bruce's mouth curve into a small smile when he finally, finally leans all the way back. 

"If my mouth on you does that," Bruce says, "what will happen when I'm inside you?" 

His voice is so hoarse that he sounds more like Batman than Bruce, and Clark knows with sudden certainty that he'll never be able to hear either of them sound like this again without remembering what this felt like – to be buried balls-deep in that faintly smiling mouth, regardless of what the circumstances are. He's still hovering about half a foot off the bed and Bruce reaches up, both hands skimming the small of his back before moving lower, calloused palms tracing the curve of his bare ass. 

"When?" Clark asks. "Not if?" He aimed for indignant and lands on desperate, but when Bruce's fingers dip into the cleft Clark can't really bring himself to care. 

"When," Bruce confirms. "But you didn't answer my question." He leans forward again, just a little, the tickle of his breath on Clark's cock a cruel, deliberate tease. "What will happen?" 

"N-no idea," Clark stammers, as Bruce's fingers continue their slow, thorough exploration. "Could be dangerous," he adds, because despite feeling like half his brain has melted away it's still a truth he has to tell. 

But Bruce's smile just sharpens. 

"Lucky for you, I'm kind of used to danger," he says. "Some might even say I chase it."

"And when you catch it,” Clark starts, panting and unsteady, “what happens then?”

Bruce suddenly grabs his hips and tugs down hard. And then Clark is back on the bed again and Bruce is the one hovering, braced above him with one hand as the other lazily strokes his cock. Clark arches up and helplessly thrusts into his fist. 

Bruce laughs, quiet but undeniably pleased. 

"The only thing I know how to do," he replies. "Work on it till it submits."


	12. DCEU - Future fic - T

Clark is careful not to make a big deal of it. There's no party, no fancy dinner, not even a generic store-bought card. He just treats it like any other night when Bruce is out on patrol – sitting up in bed, doing a bit of reading or noodling around on a tablet while he waits for Bruce to come home again.

It's late even for Bruce when Clark hears the tell-tale sound of the cave doors sliding open. He's not surprised – Bruce was nothing if not thorough, and tonight of all nights, he'd no doubt been more thorough than ever. Clark pulls his hearing back when more than one voice drifts up; Robin must still be down there, too. Not that he'd be Robin for much longer, Clark thinks, glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Almost 5 a.m. now. The sun will rise in an hour or so and when it does, everything will be different – for Robin as well as for Bruce.

It's a good twenty minutes later when the bedroom door finally swings open. Bruce is out of the batsuit already, showered and clean and in nothing but a T-shirt and boxers. A couple of new bruises are visible, one on his thigh and one on his arm, but he's moving with only the usual stiffness that comes after a long night on patrol, nothing more.

Bruce is silent as he climbs into bed, but he does give Clark a sidelong glance as he settles down. Clark says nothing, however, and eventually, Bruce sighs and shakes his head.

"I know you're dying to say it, Clark," he says. "Just get it over with."

"It's not dawn yet, though."

Clark runs his gaze over Bruce's face, taking in the grey in his hair and stubble, the lines around his eyes and mouth. None of it does anything to diminish the way Clark reacts whenever he thinks about the fact that he's still allowed to look, still allowed to touch, that his touch has been welcomed and wanted for years and years. His heart still skips a beat and a smile still curves his mouth, and Bruce still looks away, briefly, whenever he sees it. Just like the first time, Clark thinks, except that these days, Bruce always looks back again. Always.

He meets Clark's eyes now and smiles a little himself, half-amused, half-rueful. After all, Bruce was the one who'd insisted on the countdown: as soon as the sun crests the horizon, all details of Batman that are specific to the man under the cowl will be overwritten. The biometrics that control access to the cave, the medical records in the League's database, the comm frequencies used to contact him – everything. 

"It makes no difference," Bruce admits. "Not really."

Clark raises an eyebrow. "Does that mean I can still call you Batman when we're in bed together?"

"Only if I'm in the suit."

"You'd wear it for me? Really?" Clark turns to face him fully, his smile widening into a grin. "You know I have an eidetic memory, Bruce. I'm holding you to this, you can't take it back." 

"That depends," Bruce replies. He folds his arms behind his head and leans back against the headboard, a calculated move that makes his shirt stretch tight over his chest and the hem ride up, exposing a strip of bare stomach. A chest and stomach, Clark can't help but notice, that are pretty much just as strong and well-defined as when they'd first met.

"On what?" Clark asks, giving into temptation and straddling Bruce's lap. 

Bruce shrugs.

"I show you mine, you show me yours."

"You want me to wear my suit in bed?"

"It only seems fair."

Clark leans down, pushing Bruce's shirt up higher as he goes.

"I still have to wear mine for work, though," he points out, fingers skimming over Bruce's ribs. "What if it got… stained?"

Bruce shrugs again. "Not my problem."

"I guess you could clean it for me," Clark muses. "Since you'll have so much free time now." He brushes his lips over a nipple and feels Bruce's quiet laugh against his mouth more than he hears it.

"Ten years you've lived here, and you're still not used to having a butler."

Clark lifts his head.

"What are you going to do with all that free time, then?"

Bruce smiles, slow and sharp, before reaching out and tangling his fingers in Clark's hair. "I'm sure I'll think of something to keep me occupied," he says, and tugs Clark closer.

"I'm glad to see you've found the bright side to all this," Clark replies drily, but lets himself be pulled into the kiss anyway. They're making light of it now but it's been a long road to get here, and the memories are still fresh in Clark's mind – the blood dripping off the batsuit, the conflict in Robin's eyes, the resentment and the shame when Clark first brought up a truth that Bruce already knew but ignored for years.

It's one thing to know you can't do something forever, but it's another to be confronted with the reality of it.

When Clark pulls back, dawn is just starting to creep over the treeline, the glow slanting in through the open curtains and painting Bruce's skin pale gold.

"Guess that's it, then," Bruce murmurs, staring out the window. The sky is unusually clear, not a cloud in sight, and for a little while they just watch as the sun rises higher and higher, filling the room with soft morning light.

Bruce's hands are warm on Clark's waist, and there's only the slightest twitch in his fingers when Clark touches his face and says, just as quietly, "Looks like you picked a good day to retire."

One deep breath, and then Bruce turns away from the window and looks at Clark instead. "You're right," he says, and pulls Clark close again. "It is a good day."


	13. DCEU - Leaving flowers on a grave - T

There are flowers already there when he arrives, left in an unobtrusive spot by the mausoleum doors. They’re not in a carefully arranged bouquet or bought from a professional florist, nor are they the kind of flawless, single-stemmed blooms that are cultivated in a lab.

No, they're just a simple spray of wildflowers and a few home-grown roses, tied up with a piece of string. Despite the darkness Bruce can still make out the individual species, the colours breaking through the early morning gloom – the deep yellow of black-eyed susans; the pale purple of aster; the bright blue of sage. Clusters of white verbena peek out between the roses, orange and red and pink, and although there's no card Bruce knows exactly who left them there, even before the slight displacement of air behind him confirms that he isn't alone.

Clark lands almost silently in the tall, dry grass, but doesn't come any closer. Not yet.

"Someone could have seen you flying," Bruce says without turning around, crouching down and laying his own bunch next to Clark's.

His aren't from a florist either – they're from the small garden at the lakehouse, the one that Alfred started for him when he left the manor and first moved in as an 18-year-old kid. He ended up leaving Gotham altogether soon afterwards and came back a changed man – or, perhaps, more himself than he'd ever been. In any case, the garden was properly established by then, and Bruce tended to it, off and on, whenever he needed a break from the cave. Alfred taught him the basics, which he then taught to Robin, and now, some 30 years later, Clark's farmboy expertise is making it flourish in a way it never really has before.

"No one saw," Clark assures. He steps forward, finally, and stands close enough that their hands brush when Bruce straightens up again. "Most people are still asleep, anyway."

The breeze picks up and Bruce resists the urge to lean into the warmth radiating from Clark's body, a warmth he can feel even through the layers of their shirts and coats. It's still dark, not yet dawn, and after a moment where he stands perfectly still, Clark shifts a little, shielding Bruce from the worst of the wind blowing in through the clearing.

Bruce shakes his head but doesn't otherwise react. "Where'd you get the flowers?" he asks instead.

"The farm." Bruce glances over, but Clark just shrugs. "I was visiting my mom. She's the one who added the roses." He seems to hesitate, then gestures at the flowers that Bruce had brought with him. "Those are from the lakehouse, right?"

"Yes."

Clark nods. "Your garden," he murmurs. "Since I don't have one of my own, I thought this would be the next best thing."

Bruce thinks about the way Clark looks when he comes home from a night on patrol, how his figure is a familiar silhouette against the rising sun as it slants in through the glass walls of his bedroom. About how Clark never stays unless Bruce asks him to first; how he never leaves without looking Bruce in the eye as he says goodbye. How for the past few months, as spring blossomed and the garden spread, soil got stuck under Clark's fingernails and left stains on his jeans and occassionally streaked his face, and fresh flowers that Bruce never picked ended up dotted all over the house.

"You do, though," Bruce says. He can feel Clark's eyes on him but keeps his gaze fixed on the bouquets at their feet. And then he feels Clark's fingers too, sweeping over the back of his hand and grazing the inside of his wrist, before they withdraw again.

Bruce understands. Clark doesn't stay without being asked because he wants an invitation; he waits for an invitation because he doesn't want to ask.

But maybe neither of them needs to ask, Bruce thinks, not about that and not about this, either. Not anymore.

It takes hardly any effort at all to close the half-inch of empty space between them, to wrap his fingers around the hand kept at such a careful, measured distance.

Bruce hears Clark take a breath before Clark's fingers tighten around his own. One squeeze, just one, but it tells Bruce everything he needs to know.

"It goes the other way, too," Clark says. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the rush of wind sweeping through the pillars. "The flowers from the farm… they're not just from me and ma. They're yours, too."

Bruce doesn't reply. But he does step forward, through the doors and into the mausoleum, not letting go of Clark’s hand. And Clark follows without hesitation, his fingers warm and his grip secure, and doesn't let go either.


	14. DCEU - Standing at the foot of your own grave - G

The headstone is long gone but Clark still knows exactly where it used to be. 

He lands softly, carefully, a slight flutter of dry leaves the only sign of his arrival. It’s still dark, not quite dawn, but if he wanted to, Clark could look below the surface and see exactly how things have changed -- the way the earth has settled back into once-empty spaces that should never have been hollowed out in the first place.

Or at least, that’s what they tell him -- that it should never have happened, that it was all just a terrible, tragic mistake. It’s what his mother believes, and Diana and Victor and the rest of the League too, but what Clark has never admitted out loud to anyone is that deep down, he isn’t quite so sure that’s true.

He hears the car when it’s still miles away, then the sound of footsteps coming towards him soon after that. Dried corn stalks rustle and sway as someone winds their way through them, their steps slow but deliberate, no hint of hesitation at all. Clark would know who they belonged to even if the sound of them was all he had to go on; as it is, though, there are other clues at hand -- he can smell aftershave and soap and shampoo, and leather and metal and sweat; he can hear the movement of air through lungs and a heartbeat that’s as steady as a metronome. 

“Your mother asked me to bring you this,” Bruce says, when he comes to a stop beside him. There’s a bright red Tupperware container in his hands, the colour somehow making the care with which he’s holding it seem even more out of place. “I invited her to come with me,” he adds, “but she said no.”

Clark just nods, unsurprised. “She doesn’t understand why I come out here,” he replies. “She’d rather just forget it ever happened.”

“Yeah.” Bruce’s voice is quiet. “I can understand why.” 

Clark glances over but Bruce’s eyes are fixed on the patch of earth just in front of them, where the grass hasn’t quite grown in. Bruce might not be able to see the way the dirt’s caved in below the surface but Clark doesn’t doubt that he can still map the exact dimensions of where the coffin once lay, right down to the most precise inch.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be morbid,” Clark starts, but Bruce turns to face him suddenly and even now, even after everything that’s happened between them, Bruce’s direct and unfiltered gaze can still take him by surprise.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce says. He pauses, before a faint hint of amusement lights his eyes. “That’s my job, apparently.” 

Clark smiles a little and shakes his head. “That might work on everyone else, but it doesn’t work on me.”

“What doesn’t?”

Bruce has adopted his most benign expression, the kind he puts on whenever the eyes of the press are looking for Bruce Wayne. But even when all he was to Bruce was just another one of their number, Clark has always been able to see deeper than that -- and not just because his vision is superhuman.

“_That_ doesn’t work on me either,” Clark points out, and feels a small, secret thrill when he gets a quiet laugh in response. “Neither of us are morbid, Bruce. We’re just…” Clark trails off, trying to find the right words. “We’re just very aware,” he says slowly, “of the way the past can shape the present.”

Bruce stares at him for a moment, all masks gone. They’ve never discussed it, not explicitly, but right now, standing side by side at the foot of a grave that one of them occupied and the other one emptied, things between them, finally, that once seemed so out of reach -- Clark knows that they don’t have to. 

Bruce understands that he doesn’t come here to dwell on an ending. He comes here to remember the start.

“I think you might be underestimating your mother,” Bruce says eventually. He hands over the Tupperware container and gestures for Clark to open it. “I suspect she might know exactly why you’re here.”

Clark pulls the lid off the container. Inside, he finds a cookie -- homemade, chocolate chip, big enough for two. Just like the hundreds of other cookies his mother has made him over the years, except that this cookie -- the cookie she specifically asked Bruce to deliver -- isn’t the usual cookie shape. 

Instead of being round, it’s shaped like a giant heart.

“You know what,” Clark murmurs, taking it out and breaking it in two, “I think you might be right.” 

He takes a bite from one half and wordlessly holds out the other. Bruce accepts it without hesitation, and together they eat their cookies and watch in companionable silence as dawn breaks over the horizon.


End file.
